06 Double Danger

by Dee Davis

  “And besides, contrary to popular belief,” Drake quipped into the earpiece, “ramming a door hurts.”

  Moving slowly, Simon swung into the apartment, J.J. on his heels, as they checked for signs that someone was there. “Front rooms are clear,” Simon called after they were sure.

  “Back, too,” Drake said, walking into the living room. “Fire escape led right to the kitchen window. I figured I’d be more useful up here.”

  “Roger that,” Simon said, eyes still on the room. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here recently.”

  “Well I suppose that depends on how you define ‘anyone.’ ” Jillian bent to scoop up a black and white cat who was peeking out from behind a potted plant. “This little guy is definitely in residence.” The cat purred as J.J. smoothed a hand along its fur. “And I’d say his presence lends support to the idea that Dearborn wasn’t planning on making a permanent exit. I can’t imagine he’d have purposely left the cat on his own.” She cradled the animal, rubbing between its ears. With a contented sigh, it snuggled closer. Smart cat.

  “I wouldn’t have figured a guy like Dearborn for an animal lover,” Drake said, frowning as he turned to survey the apartment. “Doesn’t fit the profile. Especially not a cat. Actually, the whole place feels a little too put together, if that makes any sense.”

  “It is kind of cozy,” J.J. said, still cuddling the cat.

  Simon frowned, giving the room the once-over again. He’d been so intent upon identifying any threat that he hadn’t really given the contents much thought. But now that he was, he had to agree there was a decidedly unmasculine feel to the place. A large bookcase in one corner was overflowing with books, two overgrown houseplants completely blocking the bottom two shelves.

  Across the way, an overly ornate Victorian-looking sofa straddled the corner, red velvet pillows thrown across the seat cushions. A worn leather armchair sat adjacent to the sofa, with a heavy-legged coffee table positioned between the two. A large volume, proclaiming to be the History of Art, lay on the table, its white cover adorned with a bust of an Egyptian pharaoh.

  The walls were hung with an eclectic collection of art, but even to Simon’s untrained eyes, they looked nicely arranged and well… at least a couple steps up from “Dogs Playing Poker.” There wasn’t a beer can or pizza box in sight. And no sign of a TV of any kind. Hell, there were even fresh flowers on the table.

  Drake walked over to a small antique desk and punched a button on the laptop sitting there. It whirred to life, the wallpaper depicting an art gallery in Soho.

  “You’re right. Something about this doesn’t feel right,” Simon said, moving over to examine the computer. “I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me if Dearborn was using some kind of cover, but this seems a little extreme.”

  “Having taste is extreme?” J.J. asked, her eyebrows raising as she continued to stroke the cat.

  “Considering the state of the building and Dearborn’s background, I’d have to say, yes. It feels a little off.”

  “It’s not looking like there’s anything here either,” Drake said, as he paged through the computers files. “There’s no password protection at all. And the files are mainly business records for the gallery on the screensaver.”

  “There was no mention of an art gallery in Dearborn’s files,” J.J. said, moving over for a better look at the monitor. “What about email?”

  “There’s nothing here. He must be using an online account. Although the browser history has been wiped clean.” Drake frowned. “If this is an alias, it’s a damn good one. Either that or the dude’s just a neat freak.”

  Behind them the door rattled, and Simon pivoted, pulling his weapon, Drake following suit. J.J. stepped back, still holding the cat.

  “Who the hell are you?” Simon asked, leveling his gun at a man standing in the doorway. He was wearing pressed khakis and a starched, button-down shirt with an argyle sweater. His red hair was thinning but neatly combed. Drake had nailed it with neat freak.

  “I think the more relevant question, since you’re standing in my apartment, holding my cat,” the man said, his eyes locked on Simon’s gun, “is who are you?”

  “But since I’ve got a weapon,” Simon replied with a shrug, “I’d say my inquiry still trumps yours.”

  The man swallowed, Adam’s apple wobbling as he clutched the doorknob. “Norman Lester.”

  “And this is your apartment?” Simon repeated, waving him inside. Lester moved slowly, his legs quivering ever so slightly.

  “Yes. It is.” His eyes moved from Simon to Drake and then back to Simon again. Then his gaze dropped again to the gun, his fingers twining together nervously. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t have anything worth stealing.” Despite his shaking hands, his voice was steady, and Simon had to give the guy props for not soiling his pants on the spot.

  “This isn’t a robbery, Mr. Lester,” J.J. assured him, releasing the cat, who immediately crossed the room to twine around Lester’s ankles.

  “Then I don’t understand.” The man shook his head, confusion playing across his face. “Why have you broken into my apartment?”

  “We were actually under the impression that it belonged to someone else,” J.J. said, her gaze shooting to Simon, who nodded his approval. Unless he’d completely lost his touch, there was no way Norman Lester was involved in the helicopter crash. “We’re with Homeland Security.”

  “You won’t mind if I ask for some identification?”

  “Not at all,” J.J. replied, holding out her wallet with a beguiling smile. “We’re sorry for the intrusion, but according to our records, this apartment belongs to Mason Dearborn.”

  “Actually,” Lester said, visibly relaxing as he handed back the wallet and both Simon and Drake lowered their guns, “he doesn’t own it, he rents. And I’m subletting the apartment from him.”

  “So the two of you are friends?” Drake asked, leaning back against the desk.

  “No,” Lester protested with a wave of his hand. “I never even met the man.”

  “But you just said that you were subletting the place.” Simon motioned for Lester to sit, and he dropped onto the sofa gratefully.

  “I am. But the whole transaction was done through the super. Who actually owns the building, which makes it perfectly legal.” He shot them a worried look. “I never saw Dearborn at all. I only know his name because it was on the lease I signed.”

  “And the owner never indicated why Mr. Dearborn was in need of a sublet?” J.J. asked, perching on the arm of the chair.

  “Something about traveling for business. I wasn’t really all that interested, to tell you the truth. I just wanted to sign the lease and get on with it.”

  “So how did you know the apartment was available?”

  “My cousin. He knows the super.” The cat leaped up onto the sofa, settling into Lester’s lap.

  “So when did you take possession?” Simon asked.

  “Almost two weeks ago.”

  “And you’re already moved in?” Drake’s frown deepened. “We moved back into our house over a month ago, and we’re still living out of boxes.”

  “I know it’s a bit odd,” Lester admitted, “but I like everything in its place. I worked pretty much nonstop, and as you can see this place is small. And there are still a few boxes in the closet.” His smile was tentative but genuine.

  “So I don’t suppose you have a forwarding address for Dearborn?” Simon asked, pretty sure he already knew the answer.

  “No.” Lester shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. I just pay the owner directly.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, studying the three of them. “So what is it exactly that Dearborn’s supposed to have done?”

  “He’s involved in a case we’re working on,” Simon said, not trusting Lester enough to share more than that.

  Lester nodded, still clearly trying to make sense of all of it. “So should I be worried? Am I in some kind of danger?”

  “If you’re telling
us the truth,” Simon said, “and you truly have no connection with Dearborn other than this apartment, then no, I don’t think there’s any reason to worry.”

  “But you were in here with guns. So this guy is obviously not someone to be taken lightly. What if he comes back here? Or one of his contacts shows up?”

  “There’s no reason to believe anything like that will happen.” J.J. was quick to reassure. “And we can make sure that someone keeps an eye out, if that’ll make you feel better.”

  “Definitely,” Lester said, his Adam’s apple bobbing again. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I don’t suppose Dearborn left anything behind?” Drake asked. “Furniture, books, papers, anything like that?”

  “No. The place was empty. In fact, he paid to have the place painted and cleaned. They were incredibly thorough. The apartment was spotless.”

  “And completely sanitized, I’m guessing,” Simon said, frustration cresting. “We’ll still want to have our tech team sweep the place. Just to be certain.”

  “Of course,” Lester agreed. “Whatever you need.” He was looking almost excited now. “I just can’t believe any of this is happening.” He glanced down at the newspaper lying on the table, his eyes widening as he saw the headlines. “Hey, this is about the helicopter crash at the hospital, isn’t it? But I thought it was an accident? That someone had just made a really bad mistake. But you’re from Homeland Security and so it’s got to be connected. Right?”

  “We’re just investigating,” J.J. said.

  “Oh, my God,” Lester breathed, his voice turning raspy. “Dearborn’s a terrorist.”

  “Mr. Lester,” Drake said, a note of steel creeping into his voice, “if you want to protect national security and, in addition, make sure that you are not putting yourself in further danger, you’ll keep your speculations to yourself. We don’t want to alert the people we’re searching for that we’re on to them.”

  “Which is why you’re telling the press it was an accident.” Lester nodded. “I promise I won’t say anything.”

  “And if you think of something that might help,” J.J. prompted, holding out a business card.

  “I’ll call.” Again the man nodded, looking so earnest that Simon felt like he’d fallen into a Frank Capra movie.

  “Good.” J.J. smiled as they all stood up. “And we’ll be sending over our forensics team.”

  “Like on CSI.” Lester’s face was still alight with excitement.

  “Something like that.” Drake pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call it in now. They should be here in half an hour or so. We’ll need you to stay put.”

  “Oh,” Lester said, sinking back onto the sofa. “By myself?” The man looked hopefully up at J.J., who shot a questioning glance in Simon’s direction.

  “No worries. Drake will stay with you,” he said.

  Drake, standing behind Lester now, rolled his eyes but nodded his agreement.

  “Thank you.” Lester sighed. “I don’t think I could have handled waiting on my own. To think that I’m living in a terrorist’s apartment, and that I touched his mail.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have anything of Dearborn’s?” Simon felt his pulse rate increasing.

  “I don’t have anything,” the man shook his head. “But I did. There was some mail. Nothing important. Just a few bills and a flyer or two. But one never knows. Of course I’d have sent them on to him, but like I said, I didn’t have a forwarding address.”

  “So what did you do with them?” J.J. cut in, her frustration matching Simon’s.

  “What?” For a moment Lester looked confused, then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid this is all just a bit overwhelming.”

  “The letters, Lester?” Simon prompted.

  “Right. The letters. I put them in a Duane Reade bag, and I took them downstairs to Sanchez. I figured he’d have an address.”

  “Sanchez?” Drake asked, fighting to keep his voice calm. “You’re talking about the super?”

  “Yes,” Lester said.

  “And did he have a forwarding address?”

  “I don’t know.” Lester shook his head “He wasn’t there when I went down. So I just left the bag hanging on the door.” He ducked his head, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry. I had no idea that they might be important.”

  “When did you leave them there?”

  “Yesterday morning. I was on my way to my art gallery.”

  “And you haven’t talked to Sanchez since?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him at all. But then it’s not like we’re friends.”

  “Which apartment is he in?” Drake asked.

  “He has the whole first floor. The entrance is just beyond the staircase.”

  “You stay here with him,” Simon said to Drake. “J.J. and I will head down to Sanchez’s.”

  A few moments later, they were standing in front of Carlos Sanchez’s apartment, only this time there was no reason to knock. The door was open, the frame splintered from the force of the entry.

  “Stay behind me,” Simon warned as he pushed into the room, gun at the ready.

  Inside, everything had been tossed. Chair cushions ripped, tables upended. The drawers in a file cabinet in the corner were open, folders spilling out onto the floor.

  “Looks like someone beat us to the punch,” J.J. said, kneeling to examine some of the scattered file folders. “Any sign of Mr. Sanchez?”

  “No, but I’ll check the bedroom,” Simon said, already heading that way. The hallway was short, lined with photographs. Most of them of a smiling man Simon assumed to be Sanchez. A couple of them had been knocked off the wall, the glass shattering on the wooden floor. Simon stopped to examine a smear of what looked to be blood. Apparently there’d been a struggle.

  Still holding his gun, he stepped into the bedroom. Like the living room, the place had been tossed, but the focal point here wasn’t the mess. It was the man splayed across the bed, blood spatter on the wall behind the headboard looking like some kind of macabre decoration.

  “Is he dead?” J.J. asked, coming to a stop in the doorway behind him.

  “Certainly looks that way.” Simon crossed to the bed to check for a pulse, confirming what they already knew.

  “Any way to know how long?”

  “Not without an ME.” He shook his head. “But if I had to call it, I’d say he’s been here well over a day. So we couldn’t have done anything to stop it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “How’d he die?” she asked.

  “Single shot to the head.”

  “Just like Wilderman,” J.J. said, her shoulders tightening as she forced herself across the room to examine the body.

  “Not exactly. Wilderman was killed at close range. This was a longer shot. Maybe from the doorway.”

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  “The spatter.” He waved at the blood on the wall behind the bed. “The direction and size of the droplets can tell you a lot. I’m guessing Sanchez was trying to get away.” He pointed to a window near the bed. “Probably looked back as he reached the bed, and the shooter took the shot.”

  “And then he fell backward onto the bed.” Jillian nodded as she considered the idea. “Are we sure it’s Sanchez?”

  “Yeah.” Simon pointed to the name stitched across the man’s uniform.

  “That doesn’t really mean anything. These people have played fast and loose with bodies before,” she reminded him.

  “Except that he’s in all the photographs. The ones in the hall and the one over there.” He nodded at a framed picture on the wall over the bureau, the shot showing Sanchez in the aft of a boat, holding up one hell of a sea bass.

  “So we’re too late.” She sighed. “With Sanchez dead, and the place tossed, I’m guessing the letters are long gone.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you’re giving up too easily,” Simon said, reaching down to pull something wedged between the headboard and the wall. “Leste
r said it was a Duane Reade bag, right?” He stood up, holding out the sack with a triumphant grin. “Looks like it fell off the nightstand. Maybe in the struggle.”

  J.J. reached for the bag and, with a quick intake of breath, pulled it open. “They’re here.” She smiled at him, holding out the small stack of envelopes. “And they’re clearly addressed to Dearborn.”

  Simon flipped through the stack, noting that Lester had been right, there was nothing out of the ordinary here. But when he reached the last one, he stopped. A sticky note covered the address, a handwritten message scribbled in pencil.

  “What have you got?” J.J. asked, pushing closer, the smell of her perfume enveloping him. He blinked, pulling himself from the sensory onslaught, concentrating instead on the words Sanchez had written on the Post-it.

  “It’s the forwarding address. For Dearborn.” Simon looked up, his gaze moving to the dead man on the bed. “Sanchez came through after all.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I’m not sure I want to go in there.” Jillian eyed the apartment doorway nervously. “So far, everywhere we’ve gone, we’ve uncovered a body.”

  “I can’t say that I blame you,” Simon said, with a small smile. “But it’s part of the job description.”

  “Speak for yourself.” She laid a hand on the railing, looking down into the shadows.

  They were standing at the top of a small flight of steps that led down to a basement apartment near the corner of Pearl and Fulton. The address on the sticky note in Sanchez’s apartment. According to records Hannah had found, it was owned by an eighty-six-year-old retiree named Alden Ayers. Except that Alden had been dead for almost three months, a coronary that had taken him to the ICU and then the morgue. With no known relatives, the estate, such that it was, had been lost in a shuffle of red tape and inertia.

  All of which made it the perfect place for someone with something to hide.

  Dearborn.

  Except that he was dead.

  “If you want to wait up here,” Simon said, “I totally understand.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’re right. I need to see this through.”

  “J.J., nobody is going to blame you for wanting out. No matter how much training you’ve had, there’s no way to prepare for something like this.”